


draw a blank

by Misila



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Holy Water, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, Romance, not too much at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misila/pseuds/Misila
Summary: Holy water won't just kill your body. It will destroy you completely.—Aziraphale,Good OmensTV Series (Episode 3:Hard times)In which holy water does destroy Crowley, and the result is infinitely worse than Aziraphale could have ever anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I've watched the TV series 4 times and read the book twice. Still, I meant to write only one fic for this fandom. But then I saw [this post](https://palpalbuddypal.tumblr.com/post/185594501945/a-theory), as well as all the hypotheses about how Crowley used to be Archangel Raphael before the Fall, and before I knew it I was writing half this story in my head. I was hesitant at first because, well, _angst_ isn't exactly the main tone of the novel, but I have nothing to lose and I'm having fun, _so_.

Turns out there _was_ someone looking.

There always was.

Heaven was more diligent than Hell, if only just slightly. They went through the Earth Observation files every now and then; and after the failed Armageddon they were eager to punish the culprit technically still on their side.

The initial failure, while a hard blow for the pride of the witnesses to Aziraphale’s failed execution, had not stopped them. Michael, as conscientious as ever, had spent weeks going through the Earth Observation files, following six thousand years’ worth of something unthinkable, such a blasphemous relationship she would have never believed it had she heard about it from somebody else. She had stopped looking for an explanation for Aziraphale’s betrayal the second she realised the demon Crowley had grown immune to holy water, attributed it to the same unnatural sickness consuming both of them.

No; what Michael wanted to know was way simpler— just how on Earth that angel had survived hellfire.

And she found out.

And she was furious.

And Gabriel’s anger upon learning about the trick made hers pale in comparison.

* * *

Crowley was late.

In his defence, this time the dense traffic had nothing to do with him— the rebuilt M25 had altered its course slightly, just enough to not put every human on it in a demonically bad mood, but it was still incredibly prone to get motorists stuck in jams whenever it so much as drizzled.

Which, in London, happened rather often.

Once he overtook the idiot whose flat tyre was at fault for the jam, the Bentley sped up down central London, zigzagging among slow vehicles and pedestrians that always stood just one centimetre away from being run over by a car that defied every science by just running without fuel.

The Bentley stopped in front of an old bookshop just as any remainders of sunlight left the dark sky. Usually, Crowley would park right at the entrance, but that spot was already occupied. Just that once, he didn’t mind— he was in a good mood, whistling as he grabbed a few bottles of wine from the passenger’s seat and stepped out of the car and under the rain.

(It should be noted that he hadn’t bought the wine. Hell might not want to have anything to do with him anymore, but Crowley was still a demon and had a reputation to maintain.)

His easy smile fell a little when he saw three people crowded next to the door. Amongst them Crowley spotted a visibly uncomfortable Aziraphale, scrunched up his nose at the smell spreading through the rain— his pace grew hesitant as he crossed the road, steps halting altogether when the angel noticed him.

In the grey night, under the defective light of a lamppost, Aziraphale _blanched_.

His expression twisted into a tense grimace, lips tightly pursed under wide eyes. All of him screamed _go away_ , yet Crowley, already spinning on his heels, was too slow to vanish before the three strangers turned to look at him, too.

Gabriel, Michael and Sandalphon— all three of them smiled upon recognising him.

“Demon… Crawly, was it?” Gabriel asked, taking a step forward. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. He loathed that polite façade. “We were wondering if we could—”

Crowley would have bothered to correct the angel, but the other one –the only one he cared about, actually– seemed about to discorporate out of sheer anxiety; so he turned around to leave, go home and call Aziraphale to know why those three had shown up to ruin what otherwise would have been but a perfectly innocent night together.

“Crowley! Above you!”

Yellow eyes widened upon instinctively obeying the order –more like a desperate plea–, the glass jar spilling a transparent liquid on him. Something, he knew, wasn’t regular water— for it didn’t slide off his skin and clothes like raindrops did.

Crowley wanted to scream, but his voice got stuck in the back of his throat.

The cry didn’t come out as holy water soaked through his clothes, as it corroded through flesh and bone and Crowley looked in the direction Aziraphale called him— the air in his lungs froze as the angel pushed between Michael and Sandalphon and ran towards him, not even when his sight frayed in broken white threads.

No, Crowley didn’t cry out.

Maybe, when he raised the remains of his arm and Aziraphale brushed his fingers before they melted away, maybe he let out a strangled sob.

Maybe he didn’t make any noise at all, because it did not hurt. Being boiled alive was rather bearable, once his nerve endings ceased existing.

But the despair in Aziraphale’s eyes, the horror tainting their blue—…

“No! No! Crowley…”

…That pained Crowley to the ends of his agonising soul.

* * *

By the time Aziraphale arrived, Crowley was gone.

With no nose left to hold them, the demon’s sunglasses fell on a crimson puddle, among shards of the bottles Crowley had brought for him, for _them_. Wine that resembled blood; the actual one flowed around the sharp bits of glass embedded in the angel’s knees when his legs gave out.

Cars honked around him, drivers yelling as they passed around the man kneeling in front of a puddle of wine. Perhaps it was a miracle no vehicle hit him, perhaps it was a curse— Aziraphale’s ears turned every noise into a buzzing of sorts that filled up his mind like cotton, dry and empty and keeping realisation at an arm’s length.

He had yet to process the latest fifteen seconds.

“Crowley?”

A trembling hand reached out, clumsily grabbing the wine-stained sunglasses. They were black, solid and too heavy between his fingers.

“Crowley…”

Aziraphale did not understand. Just a moment prior, the demon had been _there_ … Tall, thin like a twig and smirking in that way that made the world so colourful, so alive.

And he wasn’t anymore.

“Crowley, my dear.”

Nobody answered.

* * *

In Heaven, an angel was created.

They found themselves in a barely mature body, standing in the middle of an impossibly vast room. Everything was white, everything was _empty_.

Including their insides.

The creature staggered in their first steps, tumbling as they walked across the nothingness, wide eyes glancing around in search for something, someone, who had some sort of explanation for— for everything. From the red curls bouncing on their shoulders to the complete desolation within their mind.

Being thrown into existence without any kind of preparation was quite a confusing experience.

They found another angel— or they guessed so, at least. The stranger had no wings attached to their back, but they emitted a light of sorts.

“…Who are you?” the new angel asked. Then, after frowning as if they had just realised something, they added: “Who am I?”

“I’m Uriel.” The stranger’s smile was gentle. “I was waiting for you… Let’s show you around, if you don’t mind,” Uriel held a hand out for them.

The angel took it without hesitation, found it warm against their palm.

“What is this place?”

“Heaven.” Uriel started walking, and the new angel went along without complaints but with a lot of questions quickly filling up the void. They soon grew bored of the white around both them and Uriel though. “It’s been redecorated a few times since you last were here, but I hope you still like it…

“Welcome home, Raphael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um. I hope you enjoyed the ~~pain~~ first chapter. I promise it'll get better. Eventually.
> 
> Comments keep authors going, so please consider leaving one. I'd love to know what you think about the fic so far!
> 
> (PS: I'm @nenufair on twitter in case you want to yell at me there)


	2. Chapter 2

The bookshop was closed.

It had been closed for a lot longer than a week.

That, however, did not mean it was empty. In fact, it was more crowded than usual, though unlike humans its owner did not mind the twenty-something plants’ presence among the shelves, the vibrant green cutting through the warm palette that painted the place in shades of brown.

In fact, the plants were about all Aziraphale cared about, these days. He had no appetite, no desire to sleep— he wasn’t curious even about the most recent defective Bible he had received, still packed in a cardboard box covered in a thickening layer of dust. For the first time since Adam and Eve left Eden, Aziraphale was behaving like he was supposed to, keeping himself far from earthly pleasures and reserving miracles for the time they were truly necessary. Truly the most exemplary angel.

Except he was not.

Aziraphale had long since stopped being a good angel. Even before the failed Apocalypse, before the Agreement, before the original sin, before… before…

(Before _him_.)

The moment he had given Adam and Eve his flaming sword. The moment he had _thought_ about doing it.

It all had gone downhill from there.

Aziraphale had purchased a few books he had no interest in yet spent every waking hour reading –that is, around twenty-four per day–, had memorised every bit of information in them; yet he kept skimming through their pages when a particular fact was slightly hard to recall, frenetic eyes devouring every word and refusing to let go of its meaning.

He repeated the same action for hours, for days, until his eyes itched and exhaustion that was far from physical sunk its cold claws into his flesh, until he noticed the freezing lightning rolling down his cheeks and acknowledged it as tears. Aziraphale would then spring up, water the plants conscientiously and will his hands to stop shaking.

Perhaps he wasn’t absorbing knowledge— it was more accurate to say the books on gardening were smothering him.

But Aziraphale could not let Crowley’s plants die, for their leaves held what was left of his sanity.

(At times he found himself staring at the sunglasses folded on the edge of the shelf, and it was close to disappear.)

Aziraphale still didn’t understand.

He remembered, of course, and the few times sleep had claimed him he had seen it happen all over again; but ever since that rainy evening the world had become an oxymoron, an empty space to wander and get a glimpse of red or black out of the corner of his eye only to turn around and never find _him_.

Aziraphale knew death— he knew humans’ lives were ephemeral like a butterfly’s fluttering, knew they came and went in a blink, was enamoured with the things they made in hopes they reached the eternity they had been denied. It was the reason he had always kept them at a polite distance, pleasant conversations over tea the closest he got to them.

But Crowley…

Crowley wasn’t human.

Crowley wasn’t supposed to leave.

Crowley was the only constant Aziraphale had ever wanted or needed throughout History, regardless of whether he knew it or not.

Crowley was his only partner in the third option beyond Heaven and Hell.

And he was gone.

* * *

Reading was as hard as one thought it was.

Raphael had got the hang of it as soon as he realised he only had to will the characters before his eyes to make sense; Uriel had given him a thick book, left him to his own devices in the timeless white of Heaven.

He read about planets, about stars, about galaxies and nebulas; and, in the boring canvas he was stuck in, drew some around him. They now orbited around his head, red and yellow and blue like a miniature solar system.

Raphael flicked a star the size of his fist away, then pulled it back so that it kept floating around him, smiling a bit. Although the book had kept him busy for a while, he was growing bored again.

After a while playing with celestial bodies he rose to his feet, started walking without pondering about his destination— there was nothing he could use to orient himself anyway. The small solar system obediently followed him, like ducklings trailing behind their mother.

Not that Raphael actually knew what ducks looked like. His book featured them, because it featured all creatures, great and small; but the astronomy section was way more alluring.

He toyed with his little universe as he advanced, disappointment growing at the lack of anybody to either guide or scold him. He wondered whether Heaven was endless, if he would get lost forever if he wandered far enough and how long it would take him to reach the point of no return.

On the other hand, if Heaven was finite, Raphael was eager to know what was beyond it. Maybe Hell. Maybe another Heaven, ruling a different universe with different rules and different planets and stars.

He picked up his pace.

Eventually he found proof that his second hypothesis was the right one, for the most part. At the end of the white, a black line became clearer as he advanced, horizon growing thicker after another while walking— and then other colours appeared within it, and it was as if someone had cut Heaven in half to show the ones there the world behind it.

Golden eyes widened upon discerning what they were seeing— a strip of sky, _real_ sky, sprinkled with faraway stars and paling into a sunny morning to the right, with impossible buildings poking its infinite mantle at different times and –Raphael suspected– different parts of the Earth.

“Do you like it?”

Every feather in Raphael’s wings stood up at the voice, too close to his ear. Instinctively he winced away from its source, the heart he didn’t need thumping loudly in his eardrums.

“Gabriel.”

They had met at some point before Uriel gave Raphael the book. He had also met Sandalphon and Michael, but they didn’t smile as wide as Gabriel did.

For some reason, the remark didn’t register as something good in Raphael’s mind.

“Ah, sorry, did I startle you?” Gabriel took a step back and Raphael lowered his wings. “You seem interested.”

Raphael’s gaze strayed towards the infinite window.

“Did humans build all of those?”

“They love tall things, don’t they?” Gabriel smiled again and Raphael confirmed that the gesture was unnerving. “Your case is… somewhat unusual, so we were thinking you could take a crash course down there—…”

“Why?” Raphael cut him off.

“Well, you need some notions of—”

“No,” Raphael interrupted again. “What is so unusual about my case?”

Gabriel’s smile tensed.

“It’s unusual for a…n angel to lose their memories from discorporation. At this point in History, too… When Armageddon starts again, you must be ready.”

“Again? How many times is the world supposed to end?”

“Leave some questions for later, Raphael.” Technically, they had the same rank; but Gabriel’s greater knowledge gave him the authority to tell Raphael off. “Let’s go.”

Gabriel turned around, started walking towards a particular spot of white. It took Raphael a couple of seconds to follow him— not that time mattered in Heaven.

“Go? Where?”

Over his shoulder, Gabriel gave Raphael a smile that sent a shiver running down his spine.

“Downstairs.”

In their wake, a star died and devoured two planets.

Raphael didn’t notice.

* * *

It was dawn when Aziraphale finally succumbed to sleep.

Saying he hadn’t meant to would have been a lie. He had singlehandedly downed two thirds of the wine kept in his back room since the nineteenth century, had welcome the dreamless slumber he had fallen into for the first time in decades, the void where no memories could reach him. For twenty-six glorious hours he was free from Heaven, Hell, God’s Ineffable Plan and the haunting sight of the creature he loved above anything else melting into nothingness— and when he finally opened his eyes, cold and stiff and with the weight of reality pinning him down on the sofa again, he understood for the first time why Crowley loved his week-long naps so much.

Then somebody knocked on the door.

Aziraphale struggled to find his voice. “Closed,” he grunted.

“We’re not customers,” somebody snapped back from outside the bookshop, and blood rushed to Aziraphale’s ears upon recognising Gabriel. “We have… matters to talk to you about.”

The angel sobered up with a snap of his fingers that left him sore and upset. He buttoned up his old waistcoat as he walked towards the door, straightened his bowtie and took a deep breath before opening it.

The wave of anger, nausea and pain that washed over him upon seeing the Archangel’s face was nearly enough to make him close the door in Gabriel’s face.

Instead he bit his tongue until it hurt, and _then_ he allowed himself to speak:

“What brings you here?”

Gabriel smiled that fake smile Aziraphale had taken too long to acknowledge as what it was— a warning.

“Since you have no reason to… well, follow any orders other than Heaven’s, anymore.” He made a pause, tasting the tension every word coiled around Aziraphale’s spine. “We’re giving you a task. It’s not like you have anything better to do, right?”

Aziraphale’s hand was still gripping the doorknob. His fingers tightened around the metal until they hurt.

“And what task would that be?”

Instead of answering, Gabriel glanced to his right, gestured at somebody to his right.

“You’ll like this,” he prophesised, but Aziraphale barely heard him.

Because the person that came into view –pale, redheaded, completely dressed in white– was familiar enough to take his breath away; but the second Aziraphale saw the curious golden eyes inspecting him he felt like drowning.

Those beautiful, familiar, terribly _human_ eyes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed out on instinct, steps faltering when he realised his mistake.

When he realised Crowley was truly gone.

The newcomer –the stranger– frowned, tilted his head to the side.

“…That’s not my name,” he replied. His gaze hopped to Gabriel, lingered in the Archangel’s polite smile for a couple of seconds, then drifted back to Aziraphale. “I am the Archangel Raphael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! As promised, here's the second chapter of The Thing. I hope you liked it <3
> 
> Comments keep authors going, so please consider leaving one. I'd love to know what you think about the fic so far!
> 
> (PS: I'm @nenufair on twitter and you're absolutely welcome to yell at me there)


	3. Chapter 3

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing aside from what you saw.”

“But it—… Crowley, he… _How_?”

“I thought you knew, Aziraphale. What holy water does to demons.”

There was a pause, a quiet tension thickening the air, because it was so easy that it sounded like a trick question in an exam.

“It destroys them.”

“It cleanses them. Purifies them inside and out— you didn’t think the Almighty would just let immortal souls go to waste, did you? Even She recycles, especially in this time and age.”

The temperature inside the bookshop lowered by about ten degrees.

“…Recycle.”

“Exactly. But look at the bright side, Aziraphale! He’s in your hands now. I’m sure you’ll keep him from Falling this time around.”

Pain squeezed Aziraphale’s empty stomach. He looked up and looked aside, and caught a glimpse of white wings disappearing between old shelves. Crowl—… Raphael had spent the latest fifteen minutes soundlessly wandering about, examining books Aziraphale hadn’t even thought of dusting off for the latest weeks.

“Why me?”

When he glanced back at Gabriel, the smile in the Archangel’s face was as sincere as it was disturbing. Aziraphale got enough of an answer from it, but could not avoid hearing his voice, sickeningly sweet:

“A little treat. We gave you a hard time the other day, after all.”

It was a terrible lie. The truth, Aziraphale knew, was that being with this stranger that resembled Crowley so much was but a twisted punishment. For rebelling against the Great Plan, for rejecting Heaven’s will and daring to outwit them and survive their executions. For the Agreement.

For loving _him_ more than he loved them.

* * *

Among everything Raphael was curious about, Gabriel was perhaps the first exception. Something about his fellow Archangel didn’t sit well with him, the wide grins upsetting even though he couldn’t put his finger on the reason. Somewhere deep within his heart, Raphael knew judging from appearances was wrong, and that principle was twice as true for angels –after all, they were on the same side, weren’t they?–; but that did nothing to smother the instinctive dislike of the way Gabriel’s smiles never reached his eyes, cold and calculating.

It made Raphael feel watched.

The sigh that left his lips as soon as Gabriel bid farewell and walked out of the bookshop drew the other angel’s –Aziraphale, or something like that– attention. Pale blue eyes never strayed off Raphael as the door closed softly.

“What?” he snapped, suddenly defensive.

For the briefest second, Aziraphale froze. Then he shook his head.

“You really… don’t remember anything?”

Raphael pressed the book in his hands –one he had grabbed at random, with no real interest in reading– against his chest.

“No. Something went wrong when I discorporated.” His fingertips tapped on the spine of the book, the rhythm of a melody whose source he ignored. “Do you happen to know what it was?”

“…I’m afraid not.” Aziraphale clutched his hands together, intertwining his fingers. “I’m down here most of the time. And… You used to, too.”

Raphael’s drumming halted. Tiny as it was, it was the first fact, the first thing anyone told him about the time before popping up in a dull, empty Heaven.

“Then we knew each other? Were we friends? And what are we doing here, exactly? Gabriel only smiles and acts all mystical and mysterious…” Raphael didn’t really realise he was getting closer with each question until Aziraphale took one step back, but he had seen too many things and received too few explanations and his entire being was driven by curiosity right now. “By the way, it’s crazy outside. Well, I guess it’s normal for them, but there are these huge… coloured… things, occupying most the space. And humans really like staring, don’t they? Ah! How long have we been here?”

Something akin to grief passed across Aziraphale’s expression. It only lasted a moment, yet it cut the stream of questions cleanly, a white noise similar to the silence always flooding Heaven. Raphael blinked and glanced around, and took a step back so that Aziraphale could unstick his back from the wooden door.

“Six…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, blinked as he shook his head. “Heavens, you’re so… out of the loop…” His lower lip shook. “Six thousand years. That’s how long we’ve been… on Earth.”

It took Raphael a couple of seconds to react— he looked through the window, saw a green metal _thing_ speeding down the street.

Suddenly, knowing its name wasn’t that important.

Six thousand years.

Raphael’s gaze fell to his bare toes.

“That’s… a long time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale trying to smile and failing. “A long time, indeed.”

Raphael didn’t dare to look up.

* * *

He had been wrong.

For six thousand years, _he had been wrong_. He had been terrified, had refused to take even the shortest nap for months during the second half of the nineteenth century and rearranged his entire bookshop five times the days after giving Crowley what he had been scared would be his own destruction. Because trusting Crowley was one thing— and quite a different one, miracling his concerns away when the demon was but three minutes late to their date in the bench in St. James’ Park and Aziraphale swallowed down the memory of the thermos he himself had given Crowley.

And it turned out that there was no way to _completely_ destroy an angel. Or a demon. They weren’t that different.

Aziraphale should have been happy.

Crowley was alive, nosing about and picking books from the shelves to read less than one page before dropping them somewhere else.

He should have been happy.

But that stranger wasn’t Crowley. He was Raphael, with a soul as immaculate as holy water, an Archangel who might have as well never Fallen, never crawled up to Eden and never become more human than demon.

Never met Aziraphale right before the first rain.

Perhaps he hadn’t been that wrong, after all.

Holy water did destroy demons. Just not the way everyone assumed.

* * *

Angels did not need to sleep or eat, but boredom was worse than physical fatigue. By the time Aziraphale returned from wherever the hell he had gone off to, Raphael was sprawled on the sofa of the backroom, surrounded by books he had grown tired of, grooming his wings and about to tear out his feathers out of sheer frustration.

Aziraphale did not look happy about the chaos, but he breathed in deeply and let it slide.

“You don’t like reading, do you?”

“Not particularly, no.” Raphael folded his wings behind himself, crossing his legs. “I would’ve left on my own, but I figured out going with you would be more productive. You know, because you know what those things are.”

Aziraphale’s gaze followed the direction Raphael’s finger was pointing at. “Those are cars. People go faster in them. Do you want to go out, then?”

Raphael nodded. “Gabriel was in a hurry when we came earlier.”

 _And he hates questions_ , he kept to himself. His fellow Archangel seemed unable to address more than three of his doubts at a time; Raphael wondered if the angel before him would be the same— if all angels were the same. Even Uriel had looked annoyed by his questions upon appearing in Heaven.

But Aziraphale smiled, tremulous and pained yet with a warmth Raphael hadn’t thought possible.

“Alright, then let’s go. But…” He looked Raphael up and down. “Maybe you should fold your wings out of reality first. Humans aren’t used to them.”

Raphael frowned. “Aren’t they? Gabriel didn’t tell me.”

“Well, Gabriel isn’t used to humans.”

Raphael got rid of his wings before walking toward the door, which Aziraphale opened for him. Once there he confirmed the suspicion he had harboured on his way to the bookshop: it wasn’t just the wings which stood out for humans. Upon glancing around a few times, he confirmed he was the only one walking barefoot.

“Ah, maybe you should miracle yourself a pair of shoes,” Aziraphale agreed. He was quiet, seemingly deep in thought, glancing at Raphael out of the corner of his eye every now and then and barely talking except to answer the Archangel’s questions. “The ground is hard and cold. And people are terribly prone to littering.”

Raphael looked at the people surrounding them for inspiration; after a couple of seconds, he found himself a few centimetres taller.

(Many of the humans wearing tunics of sorts, like his own but more colourful, wore that kind of shoes, after all. Most of them had long hair, too, which convinced Raphael putting on high heels was the most efficient miracle.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff is happening! Slowly, but the story is progressing. These first chapters are just more introspective. I hope you're enjoying reading as much as I'm loving writing it :3
> 
> Comments keep authors going, so please consider leaving one. I'd love to know what you think about the fic so far!
> 
> (PS: I'm @nenufair on twitter and you're absolutely welcome to yell at me there)


End file.
